Memory
by Roadstergal
Summary: Why did so many humans forget the alien invasion? A multichapter story set during the first season.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This story takes place in Season One of the TV series, after the episode in which the aliens learn of Blackwood.

------

McCullough bent over the microscope, turning the focus knob in and out. She moved from the fine focus to the coarse, but no matter what she did, the image remained fuzzy and blurry. She sighed and leaned back, looking at the tray of slides she had examined already. They filled three slide boxes. She rubbed her eyes, realizing that it was them, not the microscope, that would no longer focus. "This is ridiculous!" she cried.

The other three team members glanced up at her from their various positions around the basement workroom. "What is?" Blackwood asked.

"This!" McCullough waved her hand irately at the pile of slides she had analyzed, and the equally large pile still waiting. "I can't work like this. I need to find a high-throughput method for screening these samples. One that doesn't depend on my eyes. They just won't do it."

Blackwood walked over. "You know, it's funny that you mention high-throughput. I talked to this fellow at a convention a few years ago who was doing genomic PCR screening on tissue. Maybe you could chat with him."

"Yes, that sounds good," she said, leaning back tiredly. "Who was he?"

Blackwood rested his chin on his right hand and his right elbow on his left wrist, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Hrm. Let me see. It was two years ago, at FASEB in San Francisco. He was on the second floor in the afternoon session..." He paused. "No, it's no good. Let me see..."

Ironhorse straightened and pointed. "No, Blackwood, _no_. Don't you dare..." The tuning fork hit the edge of McCullough's table. A metallic wail filled the air, and Ironhorse cringed. "Dah!"

McCullough cringed, as well, as Blackwood moved the fork around the forehead, muttering to himself. "Mmm. Walking along the hallway, stepping into the meeting room. Projection on the wall. The last slide... his name is on it..."

Ironhorse rubbed his forehead with one lean hand. "I don't think it's a memory aid. I think he does that just to irritate us."

McCullough's shoulders tensed as the sound of the fork wailed through the room. "I'm beginning to agree with you." She glanced at Drake, who was grinning. "It doesn't annoy you, Norton?"

"Oh, yeah, but it's worth it just to see how hacked off it gets you two!"

Blackwood set the fork down, shaking his head. "It's no good. I can't see the name. I can see the last slide, but the name is just fuzzy." He straightened and smiled down at McCullough. "But I still have the meeting notes filed in my office. I'll go dig them up."

"You couldn't have done that right off?" she asked his back as it walked into the elevator. She pushed back from the microscope and stood. "I'm going to take a coffee break. Do you two want anything?"

"Nothing you can provide _that_ quickly," Drake told her with a wink.

As she left, Ironhorse stood and paced. The aliens had been quiet for a week, and his restlessness increased with inaction. "Just more of his New Age nonsense."

Drake leaned back in his wheelchair, watching Ironhorse stride back and forth in the tight space. "You think so? We can check it out, you know."

Ironhorse stopped, turning to face Drake. "Check out what?"

Drake spread his hands. "I can work my way through libraries that have modem-accessible catalogs, and check filed abstracts for memory research."

"Wouldn't that be a lot of effort?"

Drake chuckled. "It's not like I have anything better to do right now! Wouldn't you like to give him some flak if it's been debunked somewhere?"

The edge of Ironhorse's mouth quirked up in a smile. "You have a point." He put his hands on the back of Drake's wheelchair, looking over his shoulder. "Let's take a look."

Drake turned his head to look Ironhorse in the face. "You might want to sit over _there_, Colonel. My methods aren't always exactly kosher." He flexed his fingers, then rested them gently on the keyboard.

"I'll look the other way." Ironhorse clapped Drake on the shoulder and walked away, sitting back in his chair. Drake rubbed his shoulder. Ironhorse could stand to tone down his friendly pats.

------

Blackwood stepped out of the elevator, a file folder in his hands. "I found it!" His bright baritone echoed through the room, generating almost no reaction in McCullough and Ironhorse, who stood behind Drake, peering at the computer screen over his shoulders. Blackwood cleared his throat. "Found something more interesting?"

"You could say that..." Drake said, tapping his lip with a forefinger.

Blackwood set the folder on McCullough's desk. "Are you going to tell me about it?"

"Norton pulled up some data on memory research done in the '50s by a researched named Dr. Glastonye. All of the papers published under that name have been retracted by the journals that published them."

"Am I missing something?" Blackwood asked, trying to catch a glimpse of the screen around the other three. "So a scientist published some bogus research and got called on it. It happens." He frowned. "Why were you looking up memory research?"

"We were trying to justify taking that damn tuning fork away from you," Ironhorse replied.

Drake pushed back from the desk and turned his wheelchair to face Blackwood. Ironhorse stood back to allow him to. "It got a little strange around the edges. I found a cross-reference on that name." Drake waved at the screen, which Blackwood could finally see held a secured US governmental screen.

"What have you gotten yourself into, Norton?"

"The Joint Chiefs." Drake smiled. "The cross-reference on that name is for operation De Epice." He enunciated the break carefully.

"Deep Ice!" Blackwood rubbed his chin. "We should check this out. Where does this Dr. Glastonye work?"

"Doesn't," Drake replied. "I can't find a current reference. All of the papers were published out of CalTech, though."

Blackwood straightened and put his hands on his hips. "Well. I think I'll head down there and pay a visit. It's been pretty quiet around here, hasn't it?" He turned in a semicircle, catching carefully neutral expressions on the faces of his team. "Just a day or two. I'll stay in touch. Susan..." he pointed at the file folder, "get in touch with that fellow who does the high-throughput. It could come in handy." He turned back to the elevator, his stride purposeful. He had been battering his head uselessly against the information they had for the past week; he would welcome more data.

It took less than half an hour for Blackwood to pack. He had little enough to take, after all; a change of clothes, his dopp kit, a few papers, some general data on their project, notepads, mobile phone, and, of course, a Geiger counter. The must-have tourist accessory, these days, he thought wryly.

He clattered down the stairs, meeting Mrs. Pennyworth at the front entrance as she left the kitchen to investigate the noise. "Mrs. Pennyworth - I'll be out for a few days. Nothing big. I'll be back tomorrow, most likely, so cook those carnivores whatever they want in the meantime."

Ironhorse strode into the room. He had shed his sweats, and was now dressed in jeans and a fatigue jacket, with a rucksack over the shoulder - the contents of which Blackwood didn't particularly want to know about. "Are we ready?"

Blackwood sighed. "Paul, I'm going by myself. This is just a quick run down to Pasadena. Nothing is going to happen."

Ironhorse stepped close. Blackwood wondered how the man managed to look up at someone in such a way as to make it seem like he was looking _down_. "You don't know that. My job is to keep you safe. I'm coming with you."

Blackwood did not want to have the man hanging over his shoulder for the whole trip, imposing his paranoid security measures, telling Blackwood what he was and was not _allowed_ to do. He hated to pull rank, but the man didn't listen to anything else. "Look, Paul. I know security is your job, but _I_ am the head of the project, and my word is final. I say I'm taking this trip by myself, and that is all there is to it. Got it?"

Half an hour later, Blackwood headed south, with Ironhorse sitting stolidly in the passenger's seat. Blackwood comforted himself with the thought that at least he was the one driving.

------

If anyone had been near the man standing on the shoulder of Interstate 5 at that point in time, that person would have been startled at the strange noises coming out of the man's mouth. Nobody was, however, and so he twisted his human vocal cords around the alien language in impunity. "They are heading south, Advocacy," the man said into his radio. "I do not know their destination."

"Follow them," the mellifluous voice of one of the Advocates purred in response. "Keep us appraised, and be prepared to take action."

"I hear and obey." The man set the radio mouthpiece back into its cradle as he re-entered the State Patrol Interceptor, closed the door, and pulled away, following the battered vehicle south.


	2. CalTech

"I will never understand why you're so stubborn," Blackwood muttered, once they were well underway on the interstate. The sun hung low on their left, and Blackwood lowered the visor to that side. 

"That's funny," Ironhorse replied. "I was thinking exactly the same thing."

"I'm _sensible_, not stubborn!" Blackwood protested.

"That's funny," Ironhorse replied. "I was thinking exactly the same thing."

His voice did not change one iota from the first statement to the second, and Blackwood glanced over, raising his eyebrows. He still was never quite sure when Ironhorse was joking. He still was not quite sure if Ironhorse really _did_ joke. "This is going to be a dull for you. I'm going to spend the entire time talking science with some dusty old professor."

Ironhorse leaned back. "If I had stayed at the cottage, I would have had to listen to Suzanne talk science with herself. I'm used to dealing with long dull stretches, Harrison. That's one of the survival skills you learn in the Army."

"You're just bored. You haven't killed anything in weeks."

Ironhorse glanced over. "I'm bored, yes. But I don't _like_ killing. I just do it when I have to. You have this strange idea that I like it because you _don't_ do it, even when you have to."

"I've killed aliens," Blackwood said, grimly, feeling the weight of it settle on his mind. "I've been killing when we should be communicating."

"They're not _interested_ in communicating!" Ironhorse snapped.

This argument was all too familiar. They had run through many variations on it, but somehow, they never tired of it. Blackwood was always so _certain_ that he could bring Ironhorse around. Ironhorse, he thought with dark amusement, probably thought he could bring _Blackwood_ around. Two very reasonable, fairly intelligent human beings, with completely opposite and incompatible views on that subject. But Blackwood plunged ahead. "We just haven't found the right language. We don't know what they want."

"They want to kill all humans. They have made that _abundantly_ clear."

Blackwood shook his head. "I can't believe that. I can't believe that an intelligence out there has no desire to communicate with another intelligence when it finds it."

"Even humans have a way of finding other humans unintelligent when killing would give them something they want." Ironhorse closed his mouth with a snap.

Blackwood didn't rise to the bait. "Not all of them. I need to speak with individuals. I need to find the alien who wants to communicate as much as I do."

"Fine." Ironhorse settled back in his seat, putting one hand on his knee and looking forward. "You try to find the right one all you want. But I'm going to make sure you're not going to get killed doing it."

It was the closest to a capitulation Blackwood had ever gotten out of the man, and he basked in it for a moment. Only for a moment, however. Ironhorse had a rather proactive stance when it came to protection, after all.

If the results of that proactiveness were not so counterproductive when it came to Blackwood's own goals, he reflected, it would be rather flattering.

------

Pasadena was warm and sunny, exactly as Southern California should be; the traffic was aggressive to a point of near-lethality - again, exactly as Southern California should be. The combination of the two left Blackwood sweaty by the time they reached the Institute's grounds, and he shrugged off his flannel overshirt as he searched for a parking space. This proved to be a nontrivial task.

"It's staying there until we leave," he told Ironhorse. The other man nodded as he shrugged out of his fatigue jacket, tossed it in the back, and pulled out his pack.

They cut across campus to reach the biology department, and Blackwood was glad that they did. The walk was very pleasant. The day was warm and sunny, without a cloud marring the blue sky. Trees grew gracefully out of lush green grass, and birds twittered a greeting at Harrison. He smiled back at them. The alien threat seemed far away from this peaceful, sweet-smelling place.

"We're just going to walk in?" Ironhorse asked.

"Yep!" Blackwood held the door open. "Unless there's a meeting, the chair should be puttering around in his lab." They climbed the stairs to find that Blackwood had been completely correct. The chair of the biology department, a portly man with grey hair that was beating a steady retreat from his forehead, was speaking with a graduate student that seemed relieved to have his professor pulled away by visitors.

"Call ahead next time, Dr. Blackwood!" the chair said, pulling out seats in his office for the two visitors, panting a bit from even that slight exertion. "I always love to speak with visiting researchers, but I have to know that they're visiting in order to be on hand!"

"I just happened to be in town, Dr. Strand, and thought I'd take a chance." Blackwood sat with a smile.

"Call me Philip, please. So, you're interested in DNA methylation, are you?"

Blackwood was not in the least bit interested in it, but he pretended he was, nodding solemnly as Philip talked and asking searching questions at the proper points. One of his ex-girlfriends had told him that she had gotten by at departmental parties by asking everyone she met to tell them of their research, then listening with great earnestness. It was a lesson that Blackwood took to heart, even though he knew he himself was susceptible to that same ego-stroking trap. He glanced at Ironhorse now and again; the man affected a convincing air of passive interest. Blackwood wondered if he had perfected sleeping with his eyes closed.

"It's been most fascinating speaking with you," Blackwood said, once Philip had run out of steam. "Perhaps you could help me with something else. I was hoping to speak with a Dr. Glastonye about memory research..."

The chair threw back his head and laughed heartily. "Oh, Harrison, don't waste your time. Glastonye is an old fraud. If you're interested in memory research, I can give you half a dozen references that are, well," he coughed, "legitimate."

"So Glastonye is no longer a professor here?" Blackwood asked.

"Oh, no, no, not for years! Not since the retractions - which occurred under my predecessor, I should mention. That old kook still lives around here, but there is no place in our faculty for bad science."

"Nearby? Where? We'd like to pay a visit."

Philip frowned. "If you're sure..." he said, reluctantly. He pulled open a drawer in his desk and fished around in it, finally pulling a sheet of paper out of a file folder. He put it on his desk and copied something off of it in a barely-legible scrawl. "It's actually only a few blocks away from here. Glastonye likes to stroll by, feed the pigeons, and growl at the undergraduates. But you're wasting your time."

"I have time to waste." Blackwood smiled and shook Philip's hand before he took the offered piece of paper. Ironhorse came back to life and stood as well, and after a few genial farewells, they stepped back out into the warm sun.

"Up for a walk?" Blackwood asked, taking a deep breath.

The house that matched the address on the paper was small and dilapidated, grey paint barely holding on to the exterior. It was clean, however, and the small garden was arranged and pruned with an almost frightening precision, rosebushes planted in rows like short, thorny soldiers. Blackwood paused to bend down and smell them. They were arranged by color, and each color had a unique scent.

"This is no time to stop and smell the roses, Blackwood!" Ironhorse snapped. He strode up the steps and banged on the door. Blackwood walked up the steps behind him as the door opened. A small woman stepped out of the house, peering up at Ironhorse. Her wrinkled skin had the texture and color of old parchment, and her close-cropped hair was pure white. She could have been any age from sixty to a hundred and ten. "We're here to see Dr. Glastonye," Ironhorse said, imperiously.

Blackwood started to say something, then bit his tongue.

"I'm Dr. Glastonye," she said, in a voice like a cracked alto saxophone. "What do you want?"

Ironhorse opened his mouth, closed it, and turned back to Blackwood. The other man smiled and stepped up to the porch. "I'm Dr. Harrison Blackwood. I wanted to talk to you about your research."

Glastonye peered at Blackwood, her brow furrowed. "Nobody wants to talk with me about my research. Piss off." She stepped backwards, swinging the door shut. Blackwood caught it with the flat of his hand before it closed.

"I do!" he said. The door pushed against his hand, and he sighed. Well, it was worth a try, he decided. "It's about the aliens!"

The door swung open, and Glastonye's wrinkled face peered around it. She stared at Blackwood for a moment, then stepped back from the door and walked into the house. "Well, don't stand out there all day. Come in and have a cup of tea."

The interior of the house was just as old, worn, and clean as the outside. Bookcases along the walls were packed to capacity. The hardwood floor would have cost a small fortune to install at current prices, but its scars and scuffs indicated that it had been there for a long, long time. Glastonye waved them at a faded green loveseat, and Blackwood sat. He held out his fingers to a coal-black cat that lay napping on a small side table; it sniffed his fingers, then curled back up with cattish disdain. Ironhorse sat next to him after a moment's pause to look around the room.

Glastonye walked out of the kitchen, carrying two cups on saucers. She held them out to the men. Blackwood took one gratefully, sniffing the wisps of aromatic tea. Ironhorse shook his head. She pushed it closer. "It's rude to refuse an offer of tea, young man." With a dubious glance at Blackwood, Ironhorse took the cup, settling it uncomfortably on one thigh.

Blackwood sipped at his tea as Glastonye sat across from them. "What is all of this nonsense about aliens?" she asked, warily.

"Your nonsense first." Blackwood smiled and nodded at her. "First of all, why do you remember the invasion? Most people don't."

She sighed. "It's all my fault that they don't." She stared at Blackwood keenly. "This wasn't my initial intent. I was a sleep researcher. I worked on the electronic rhythms of the brain in sleep, and how electromagnetic fields affected them. So many practical applications!" She shook her head. "And I did good research. _Damn_ good research." Bitterness saturated her voice. "I happened to publish a paper on electromagnetic fields that would induce a hypnotic state."

"Mass hypnosis?" Ironhorse asked.

"Yes, yes! I couldn't believe it, once I actually tried it. It worked far too well. You could hypnotize rooms of people, and from that I extrapolated that you could hypnotize larger gatherings, even whole cities - it just depended on the power of your transmitter and your ability to project suggestions." She crossed her arms and settled back into her chair. "After I published, the government paid me a visit."

Blackwood tried to process all of this. It was mind-boggling. Intentional memory modification on such a grand scale! And done, not by the aliens, as he had feared, but by humans. Perhaps as he _should_ have feared, he thought bitterly. "In the wake of the invasion. But why?"

"Do you know what it was like?" She shook her head. "No, no, you were too young, even if you remember. But can you imagine?" She spread her hands. "Mass devastation, delivered by fearsome aliens with fearsome, impossibly advanced technology! There was such panic. So many riots. Everyone was petrified about the return of the aliens, or another wave. The death toll from the aftermath might have been worse than what the aliens wrought." She sighed. "Humans can be so... inhuman."

Blackwood nodded. "So people were hypnotized, and memories were wiped."

Glastonye inclined her head back and forth. "Not wiped. My procedure was not capable of _that_. Modified... yes. The invasion turned into a series of natural disasters, in the end." She rubbed her chin. "Of course, not everyone is susceptible to hypnotic suggestion. And those who were directly involved in the response did not forget; an active role is more difficult to modify than a passive one. But most did, most did..."

Blackwood pondered. He was skeptical, but it all fit so very well. He needed to question her more, get the details of her procedure. "That's fascinating. I'd love to go over your research with you. Would you come back with us?" He ignored Ironhorse's small but frantic hand gesture. He could get clearance for an old scientist to stop at the cottage for a while.

Glastonye eyed them suspiciously. "Why? Are you from the government? Are you here to shut an old woman up once and for all?"

"No!" Blackwood paused, then amended his statement. "No, I mean, we are with the government, but I'm a scientist, and I'm interested..."

Glastonye interrupted him with a loud snort. "Government scientists. Run along home. You can drag me kicking and screaming, if you want to, but until you do, I'm staying right here." She looked at the black ball of fur that still lay curled up on the table. "With my cats."

This was not going to be easy, Blackwood thought. He turned to deliver an exasperated glance to Ironhorse, but the other man leapt to his feet, his teacup crashing to the ground. It shattered, spilling tea all over the hardwood floor. Glastonye jumped to her feet, yelling, "Young man!" Her voice and face radiated offense.

Ironhorse paid her no attention. He turned to the door, bending to a crouch as a burly CalTech security guard came crashing through it. Blackwood jumped to his own feet, juggling his teacup; the black cat on the small table reared up onto all fours, arching its back and hissing at the guard, its hair on end. Ironhorse lunged forward, catching the man's solar plexus with a shoulder. The guard's breath flew out of him with a noise like a deflating bagpipe, and he tumbled over Ironhorse, falling to the ground with a house-shaking crash. Ironhorse dropped to one knee and pulled a long, wicked-looking knife out of his boot; he used it to slash the guard's throat wide open. Pez-dispenser wide open. The guard gurgled as green blood poured out of the gaping cut; his face contorted as his features began to melt and bubble.

Blackwood turned back to Glastonye. She stared at the guard, openmouthed. In a quiet, stunned voice, she said, "They're back..."

"Let's get out of here!" Ironhorse grabbed his bag and kicked the hanging bits of door off.

Blackwood took Glastonye by the arm, urging her along. "Yes, they're back, and we're fighting them. Come with us!" He helped her out of the house, down the steps, and along the street. She moved slowly - whether due to age or shock, Blackwood could not tell, but he could certainly tell that she was not making good progress. He paused to pick her up in a cradle-carry. She was light, but he ran slowly with his arms encumbered. Ironhorse glanced over his shoulder, then paused to let Blackwood catch up. He fished a semiautomatic out of his bag as he waited.

A roar and a screech made Blackwood's head snap around. A State Patrol car swung around the corner and fishtailed up the street. Ironhorse did not hesitate; he pushed Blackwood behind a parked car, then ran out into the middle of the street, putting his right wrist onto his left hand to take careful aim. He sighted coolly as the car sped towards him, took two shots, and leapt out of the way. The patrol car careened out of control and smashed into the row of cars parked along the far side of the street, the driver slumped over the steering wheel. Blackwood glanced in the window as he stood. The trooper's face was already starting to melt.

"Move, Harrison!" Ironhorse barked, tugging at Blackwood's arm. The two men trotted up the street; Blackwood cradled the still-shocked scientist, and Ironhorse kept one hand on Blackwood's back, glancing about for any further sign of ambush as they headed towards their vehicle.


	3. Berkeley

Blackwood grabbed the armrest as the SUV swung through the entrance ramp at a fairly high rate of speed. He let go once they were moving straight again. Ironhorse was driving, which was not a particularly relaxing experience - but Blackwood wanted to sit in the back with the fairly traumatized scientist and make sure she did not move from mild shock to anywhere worse. He touched her shoulder, and she turned to him, her eyes wild. 

"They're back," she said, quietly.

"Not exactly." Blackwood took one of her hands in his. It shook. "These are the same aliens that the bacteria defeated in 1953. But they became contaminated with radioactivity, which killed the bacteria. They've been revived."

"They can take human form, now." She shook her head in disbelief. "How can they _do_ that?"

"It's not _exactly_ taking human form," Blackwood replied. "They take over human bodies. There's some type of cellular fusion that occurs. One of our scientists is trying to characterize it."

"That's fantastic. And not in the 'marvelous' sense of the word." Her frown deepened. "The chances of them sharing _any_ kind of signaling molecules with us - let alone genetic material - are just about nil. You'd have a better chance of reproducing with an ear of corn!"

"I know it seems impossible, but somehow, they do. You saw it. We have very little information so far. The taken-over bodies dissolve almost immediately when they die, so we have had little chance to study the process."

Glastonye leaned back, rubbing her chin. She seemed calmer when she was approaching the reality of Aliens Among Us as a scientific problem, Blackwood noted. He sympathized entirely. "They could do it if they shared some _very_ basic molecules. Maybe they're a small-molecule-based lifeform. Second messengers as their only components. That would also explain why they can stand radioactivity that's high enough to kill the bacteria. No genetic material to break down." She pondered further. "Perhaps their native planet is high in gamma radiation."

Blackwood pondered that. It was a very tidy hypothesis, actually. "You should speak with our molecular biologist, Dr. McCullough. She'd have some thoughts on that, I'm sure, but it's an intriguing idea."

Glastonye barked an unamused laugh. "I'm no molecular biologist, my boy. I took the small amount that was requisite to do my neurology. We should stop by Berkeley. I have a colleague at the University there. A young man who doesn't mind the comments of an old kook as long as they're to the point. He works on cell signaling."

"That sounds..." Blackwood grabbed the armrest again as the SUV abruptly decelerated and skewed to the side. "The hell?" he barked up front as they came to a stop.

"Five minutes." Ironhorse pulled something out from under the passenger's front seat and exited.

"Just a moment," Blackwood told Glastonye, and stepped out. He ran around to the back, where Ironhorse was swiftly swapping the license plate with one he had pulled out from under the seat. "What is this?"

"One of those aliens was a State Patrolman," Ironhorse told the new plate as he screwed it in. "He might have sent our plate around."

"How long have you been this paranoid, Paul?"

Ironhorse looked up at him, his eyes narrowing. His voice dropped half an octave as he purred, "And just _why_ are you asking that?"

Blackwood did laugh, and felt a certain amount of tension ebb out of him as he did. He hadn't realized how much he had built up over the afternoon. He sighed. "We're stopping at UC Berkeley on the way back."

"Why?" Ironhorse walked to the front of the vehicle to finish the plate swap. Blackwood followed.

"Glastonye has a colleague there who is into cell signaling. I want to talk over an idea she had."

"That's a negative." Ironhorse finished screwing in the plate, stood, and looked Blackwood in the eyes. "We've been attacked once on this trip already. We're going to get you and the doctor to safety. You and McCullough can go see this fellow later, when we have time to plan a proper trip."

"It's on the way back."

"It'll be on the way out, when we do go." Ironhorse turned and re-entered the vehicle, tossing the old plates on the passenger's seat and buckling himself in.

"It'll be a quick stop." Blackwood leaned on the door.

"It won't be a stop at all."

Blackwood, tired of arguing, barreled on as if the man hadn't said anything. "We wouldn't do it if we weren't _so_ sure you would take care of anything that came up." He hopped into the back. "Drive on, Jeeves!"

Ironhorse grunted.

------

It was somewhere between late night and early morning when they arrived back in the Bay Area, but Glastonye directed them to campus, rather than to a private residence. "He has a lovely house in the hills, but he's working on a grant. He won't sleep until it's done."

She called up from a public phone, and they waited at the door to one of the looming, dark buildings. A small dark-skinned man poked his head out of the door after a few minutes. His hair was disheveled and his eyes red-rimmed. "This is a surprise!" he said in a gravelly voice.

"Sorry to drop by with so little notice," Glastonye responded, "but these fellows wanted to talk to you about signaling."

"It couldn't have waited until morning?" the little man groused. But he stepped back, leaving the door open. The trio of visitors walked in after him, then followed as he lead them to an elevator. He introduced himself to Ironhorse and Blackwood as Dr. Pratech, and nodded curtly instead of shaking their hands.

He lead them to a small lounge on an upper floor. The three men sat; Glastonye begged a moment to visit the women's room.

"What is all of this about?" Pratech asked, yawning. "And why did my esteemed colleague bring you here at such a godforsaken hour?"

"Well, it's a bit complicated." Blackwood noted that there was a small coffee maker in the corner, and walked over to start a pot. He was used to going long stretches without sleep when it was necessary, but he never said no to a little assistance. "We have... a paradigm of cell fusion. We've no experience in it, and could use a little input."

"Tell me more," Pratech responded.

Blackwood tore open a single-pot pouch of coffee and dropped it into the basket. "The fusion involves a cell type that might well have no genetic material of its own."

Pratech snorted. "What kind of a doctor are you? Every cell type has genetic material. Even viruses do."

"This doesn't." Blackwood poured water into the coffee maker and started the brew, then turned to face Pratech, putting his hands on the counter behind him. "It's something previously uncharacterized."

Pratech's teeth flashed a startling white in his dark face as he grinned. "Well, this might be amusing. Go ahead, tell me more about this wonder-cell of yours."

Blackwood started to speak, then paused as Glastonye walked in. Something struck him as very strange about her; her walk was too stiff, and she looked straight ahead. Before he could digest those data, she raised her right hand, which had a revolver in it, and fired two shots. Pratech slumped over the table. Ironhorse leapt to his feet, pulling his own gun out and readying it - but he paused, and then fell as Glastonye fired twice more.

Blackwood snapped out of his shocked stillness. He grabbed the coffeepot and slung scalding-hot coffee at Glastonye. The shriek she let out as it splashed over her head was guttural and inhuman; she dropped her gun and clawed at her face.

A fire extinguisher stood in the corner, and Blackwood picked it up. He paused for a moment, looking at the frantically wailing Glastonye. He was a pacifist, he raged internally. Just because what he was about to do did not involve a gun did not make it any less an act of murder. Murder of a colleague, of a scientist - no, of an _alien_, an alien who had shot his friend. He swung the fire extinguisher, and it connected with a sickening crunch. Glastonye fell to the ground, her head crushed and oozing green blood.

Blackwood ran to the table. Pratech had been shot twice in the chest; Blackwood could feel no pulse in his neck. Ironhorse was twitching, however. Blackwood knelt by him. Glastonye must have had more trouble with a moving target, he thought with some relief; bloodstains were spreading rapidly from Ironhorse's shoulder and side, but he was still alive and conscious. "Just lie still," Blackwood muttered, pushing Ironhorse back down as the man tried to sit up.

"I couldn't do it," Ironhorse growled through his teeth.

Blackwood tore a strip from the man's shirt and tied it tightly around the wound in his shoulder. He wadded up his own shirt and pressed it tightly to the hole in the other man's side. "You liked her, and so you hesitated. That's a good thing, Paul. It means you're human."

"Don't patronize me. Help me up. There might be more of them out there."

"I'll take a peek. You _stay here_." He put the hand from Ironhorse's uninjured side on his makeshift compression bandage, then skulked out into the hallway.

In the lurid green glow of the Exit sign lighting, a security guard's uniform lay on the floor in a steaming puddle of goop. Blackwood stepped over it, looking for a telephone. He would have to get Paul some help, and also call in to the cottage. He could tell them that a major mystery surrounding the invasion was now solved.

A pity that the answers to mysteries are not always satisfying, he thought.


End file.
